


Assumptions

by OneBlueUmbrella (bigblueboxat221b)



Series: Adjacent [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Assumptions, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Walk Of Shame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:22:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26672092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/OneBlueUmbrella
Summary: For the prompt:We live in the same block of flats but haven’t ever talked and Sunday morning we were both doing the walk of shame and had to stand in the lift together.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Series: Adjacent [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1075677
Comments: 27
Kudos: 161





	Assumptions

It felt like the walk of shame, and Greg knew it looked exactly as it felt. Thank God he was old enough not to care if his neighbours thought he was ending up at someone else’s flat three times a week. Newly graduated police officers who’d caught the eye of a DI didn’t get to complain when they were invited to crime scenes at odd hours. Greg was well aware of how lucky he was to be invited, and the fact there wasn’t anything else in his life was kind of a positive for once.

One of his neighbours was heading out with her small dog as Greg was heading in. He smiled at her in the reflexively friendly way people did, but all she gave him in return was a raised eyebrow. If a bus hadn’t been trundling past he was pretty sure he’d have heard her tut-tut in judgement, too. His smile twisted into a wry expression instead. Five years ago he would have cared that she obviously disapproved, but after working his arse off to get into the academy, he didn’t have any further energy to give to other people.

“Mrs. Sherman disapproves of the entire world, as far as I can ascertain,” a voice came from behind Greg.

He turned, blinking before the figure resolved. Tall, pale, great suit. The details gave him away though; red eyes, tie slightly askew, voice husky.

_Late night too, hey?_

Greg extended his hand. “Greg Lestrade. 4E.”

“Mycroft Holmes. 4B.” He switched his umbrella to the other hand. “The end of the hall.”

“Yep,” Greg said. The lift arrived and they both stepped inside.

“I can’t say I really care,” Greg said, wanting to continue their conversation. “About Mrs. Sherman.” He tugged at his jacket, suddenly more aware of how unkempt he probably looked. “Her life’s not affected by my choices.”

“Not this time,” the man replied.

“What’d you mean, not this time?”

“Well,” Mycroft replied, “should you decide to pursue tap dancing, Mrs. Sherman’s flat is directly below yours.” He looked Greg up and down. “This decision is less likely to disturb her sleep.”

Greg grinned, feeling something flutter in his belly at the flirtatious tone in Mycroft’s voice. “I’ll remember that,” he said. “And what about your life choices?” He glanced pointedly along the line of Mycroft’s body. “I notice you’re coming home the same time as me.”

A raised eyebrow and the tightening of muscles around the mouth told Greg he was holding in a smile. “Despite appearances,” Mycroft drawled, “I was working.”

The lift dinged as it opened on their floor, and Greg was still grinning as they both turned left onto the carpet. Mycroft stopped at his door, and Greg continued without looking back until he was standing before his own door, a couple of metres down the hall.

“Despite appearances,” he said, glancing back and turning the lock for dramatic effect, “so was I.”

He grinned, staying long enough to see the pleased surprise on Mycroft’s face before stepping into his flat.

_This could be fun._

+++

Two days later, Greg almost tripped over the box sitting at his front door. He was on his way out and didn’t have time to check it, so it landed on his entry table instead.

Fourteen hours later, Greg was relieved it was close enough to dinner time so his arrival didn’t warrant comment when he passed Mrs. Sherman on her way out. All he wanted right now was a meal and some sleep. Thank God the lift was empty, but when he opened his door, the box sat on his entry table where his keys usually landed. Greg paused, wondering if he had the energy to deal with whatever was inside right now. Weighing up his curiosity with fatigue, Greg glanced at the top of the box. His name was handwritten but instead of a full address it only had his flat number.

_Greg Lestrade, 4E._

Despite himself, Greg felt his curiosity flare, outstripping the heaviness pulling at his mind. It felt like a huge effort to drag the box over to the sofa, though he knew it wasn’t all that heavy. The top was taped down and he peeled it back, folding the flaps down. An envelope sat on a brown paper bag. He lifted the envelope, automatically taking in the details. The box was unmarked, but it was the perfect size for the bag. The tape had been applied carefully, cut off at the end with the clean edge of a blade. His name was written clearly, and Greg would bet money the handwriting on the note would be neat, if there was any.

Blinking, he tilted the box to read the printing on the paper bag. The text was in varying sizes but enough words jumped out for Greg to understand.

_Republica Coffee Roasters._

_Dark Angel._

_French Dark Roast Blend._

It was a bag of coffee beans.

Perhaps it was the long day, but Greg had no idea why someone would send him coffee. He certainly didn’t order it, and this looked expensive.

_I don’t even own a grinder._

Realising he was still holding the envelope, Greg looked it over. Plain, nothing written on the front, but clearly expensive stationery. Interesting. He wondered if he should be mindful of fingerprints, but reasoned they were more likely to be on the box. Besides, he was opening the envelope as he tried to convince himself, so there wasn’t much point now.

The single sheet of notepaper matched the envelope, which didn’t surprise Greg. Whoever this was, the details were clearly important. He opened the paper, feeling the edges rub together as he slid it open. As he predicted the handwriting was neat, the words running in a single straight line across the paper.

_Should you find yourself working further nights, I find this useful to counteract fatigue. - M. Holmes, 4B._

Greg blinked, his fatigue falling away as a slow smile spread across his face. Whatever he’d thought would happen next time they saw each other, Mycroft obvious wanted some kind of contact.

_Well this is an easy one._

Taking the bag from the box, Greg hauled himself from the sofa. He guessed he wasn’t looking his best after his early start and definite lack of lunch, but this warranted immediate action. Looking down at his work shirt Greg winced. Perhaps he could take two minutes…

Four minutes later Greg grabbed his keys. They wouldn’t fit in the pocket of his jeans, which he refused to admit were tighter than they should be, so he stowed them in his leather jacket instead. This was much more him than his work clothes. A good decision, he told himself.

Picking up the coffee Greg stepped out the door, fingers shaking with sudden nerves. The door slammed a little behind him, but he was halfway down the hall by then. He didn’t hesitate, knowing it would only make it more awkward if they saw each other between now and when he did get up the courage to knock on the door of 4B. Much as he wanted to approach Mycroft there was still a piece of him that remembered the derisive sneer of his father when he first brought home Thomas. It was just that once but the afternoon was seared into his memory.

Time had taught him to be more at peace with himself, but occasionally Greg’s father reared his head. It was probably the slamming door, Greg told himself as he came to a stop outside 4B. He knocked without waiting, mentally flipping off his father as he did so.

“Good afternoon.”

The voice brought him back to the hallway, and Greg blinked. Mycroft was wearing another great shirt, a tie and waistcoat (was he wearing that last time? It looked amazing) and it took a couple of seconds for Greg to speak.

“Hi,” he said, reminding himself to smile. The awkward silence hung between them and Greg kicked himself. It wasn’t quite going as he’d planned. “I got the coffee.”

“I see,” Mycroft replied with a smile of his own. He shifted. “I’m sorry.” As he drew breath to keep speaking Greg braced for a rejection, “where are my manners? Please, come in.”

Greg relaxed and nodded, stepping past Mycroft. His place was much like Greg’s – not a lot of personality, clearly a single man’s place to crash in between work hours. The differences were subtle, but Greg was trained to notice details. Everything was tidier and more expensive, and where Greg had pictures of his sister and her kids on the fridge, Mycroft’s was empty.

“I appreciate the gift,” Greg said, turning when Mycroft had closed the door. “But there’s a small problem.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow in a move Greg would have bet money he practiced in the mirror. “You don’t drink coffee?”

Greg grinned. “You really think I work so many hours without drinking coffee?”

“I’m certain you work extended hours,” Mycroft said with a smile. “Any other statement on your life would be a guess.”

He’d tensed when Greg said a there was a problem, but relaxed at Greg’s retort. He hadn’t been confident about the overture but Greg’s teasing answer eased his concerns. Greg found himself reading Mycroft’s reactions and he felt a thrill at the realisation there might be something here.

“Well the problem,” Greg said, taking a chance and moving a little closer, “is that I don’t own a coffee grinder.” He placed the beans on the arm of the sofa, using the action to shift even closer to Mycroft. When he looked up, studying Mycroft’s expression, he could see surprised pleasure in his eyes. They were grey, a detail he hadn’t remembered from their brief conversation a few days ago.

“Well,” Mycroft replied, and the soft purr of his voice caressed the back of Greg’s neck, “I do.” He gestured to the coffee beans. “And this particular blend is ready to go.”

Greg felt his own eyebrows rise. If that wasn’t an invitation he didn’t know what was.

“In that case I’ll have to come over for my morning coffee,” he replied, deliberately pitching his voice lower. “Assuming I’m not already here, that is.”

“And are you expecting such an invitation?” Mycroft’s voice was amused, the rough edge matching Greg’s.

“Perhaps,” Greg replied, smiling through the rush of arousal at Mycroft’s voice. “Should I wait for an invitation, or would you prefer-”

His teasing tone was cut off when Mycroft stepped in, pressing Greg against the wall with his body. Greg almost closed his eyes, half expecting a kiss, but Mycroft held back, studying Greg’s reaction. His hands rested wide against the wall, bracketing Greg’s head.

_Jesus._

Whatever he’d expected, it wasn’t this. Mycroft wasn’t hurting him, but he was certainly in control of exactly how close they were. Mycroft’s cologne was wrapping around them both. Greg was relieved he hadn’t thought to reapply his own; it felt like being branded, and he wondered if it would linger after they were done. What exactly they’d be doing he wasn’t entirely sure, but Greg could feel Mycroft’s chest rising and falling against his own.

Mycroft’s eyes were watching as he shifted his hips, sliding his leg between Greg’s and settling their bodies even closer. Greg felt the wallpaper under his fingertips, pressing hard as a gasp left his mouth. He didn’t move, sinking willingly into the dynamic he and Mycroft were creating.

“I think we might be thinking along the same lines when it comes to asking,” Mycroft said. He’d leaned closer, his breath so light Greg wasn’t even entirely sure it existed as it trailed down his neck. “Do you think so?”

Greg exhaled sharply. He swallowed, and the second ghost of Mycroft’s breath across his skin drew a long deep shiver.

“I’ll repeat myself this once,” Mycroft murmured. “Do you think we might be thinking along the same line when it comes to asking?”

“Yes,” Greg managed on his next exhalation. “I think we might.”

“Good,” Mycroft replied. He eased his body forward again, rolling his hips into Greg’s. “Because I am going to like it when you ask.” He pulled back, looking into Greg’s eyes.

Greg saw the same fire he felt low in his belly, but Mycroft’s didn’t flinch.

His control was admirable.

“Kiss me,” Greg whispered, unable to wait another second.

In return Mycroft’s mouth twisted into a smirk. “That wasn’t a request,” he murmured.

“Please.”

The word was barely out of Greg’s mouth before Mycroft’s mouth covered his, kissing him hard. Greg’s head reeled, but not for long – Mycroft pulled back, panting into the space between them. He waited as Greg opened his eyes before he spoke again.

“While I believe we’ve come to an agreement regarding questions,” he said, voice strained, “I would prefer your hands on me.”

Greg stared for a second before the words sunk in. Slowly, he pulled his hands forward from the wall, settling them tentatively on Mycroft’s hips. He was watching as intently as Mycroft had been watching him, and a rush of desire flowed at the evident response. Lips parted, eyes widened, breath caught. Impulsively Greg tugged, pulling at what felt like a shirt until he felt skin under his fingertips. Desperate though he was to touch, Greg remembered to ask.

“Is this okay?” he asked.

“Yes,” Mycroft replied through gritted teeth.

Sliding his hands under the fabric, Greg drank in Mycroft’s response. He didn’t hide a thing, which was a rush in itself; Greg could see every twitch of his expression and flutter of his eyelid.

_He’s sharing this with me. Sharing his vulnerability._

Greg slid his hands further. Ribs passed under his fingers until he curved around to the soft area along Mycroft’s back. It fuelled the sparks in his belly and he let his jaw slacken, the groan audible in his throat.

_Oh, I have some ideas…_

+++

“Coffee?” Mycroft asked, the words pressing into the back of Greg’s neck. “I assume you’ll be required at work at some point today.”

Grinning, Greg rolled over. “As it happens I won’t,” he said, breathing in Mycroft’s warm eyes, his skin almost luminescent in the morning light. “A day in lieu after I put in a bunch of overtime they don’t want to pay me for.”

Mycroft’s eyes glinted. “I will be required at the office,” he said. “But perhaps should our schedules align again…”

“Good plan,” Greg replied, stretching. “I was knackered before I even got home last night, I definitely need more sleep.”

“Perhaps coffee would be a bad idea,” Mycroft said. “On this particular morning, at least.”

“True,” Greg allowed, still grinning at the implication of other, future mornings. “But if you’re home at a decent hour, you know where I live.”

“I do,” Mycroft replied.

After a few minutes of wandering hands that might have otherwise gotten out of control, Mycroft had them both moving. Greg dressed again in his clothes from the previous night. Even though they had been clean, there was the distinct air of ‘morning after’ to the whole thing.

Ironic, he thought, then wondered if he was using the term correctly.

_Mycroft would know._

“An actual walk of shame this morning,” Mycroft said, cradling his coffee and smiling as Greg tied his shoes.

“Thank God it’s only down the hall,” Greg replied. “That coffee smells amazing, by the way.”

“I’m glad you approve,” Mycroft said.

Greg stepped closer. He could feel Mycroft brace, but he didn’t move. “Consider this me asking you to call me,” he murmured, kissing Mycroft deeply, tasting the coffee on his tongue.

“I shall,” Mycroft replied.

Grinning, Greg turned and left the flat. He was still smiling as he spotted his own door at the end of the corridor; what could be more perfect? As he reached for his door handle, a disapproving throat was cleared behind him.

“Can I help you?” Greg asked, recognising Mrs. Sherman immediately.

“Did I just see you come out of Mr. Holmes’ flat?” she asked.

“You did,” Greg replied, deciding to answer her questions. They might as well get things straight right now, and he was in too good a mood to be annoyed by her tightly wound judgement. Mentally, he girded his loins for an argument.

To his astonishment, she leaned forward and patted his hand. “Good,” she said. “You’ve been working too many late nights, young man, and you and Mr. Holmes are a well suited pair.” She smiled, her face transforming into a kindly old granny. “Come down and have afternoon tea one day. I could do to share some stories. I was on the job you know, the only woman at my station! Teach you a few things, I’d say.”

Having imparted her self-proclaimed wisdom, Mrs. Sherman turned and trundled back down the hall. Greg watched her go, astounded at what she’d just said, amused and a little ashamed at his own behaviour. He’d assumed that _she_ assumed he was sleeping around, when she was actually astute enough to realise he was working all hours of the day and night. And she disapproved of it.

_You and Mr. Holmes are a well suited pair._

The homophobia he’d feared was all in his own mind, too. With a grin, Greg opened his flat door. It might have been the shortest walk of shame ever, but it was also the most enlightening. Right now he was heading back to bed, but he had the definite idea that things in his building were about to get a whole lot more fun.


End file.
